


Strange Thoughts in Small Spaces

by gardenvarietyunique



Category: Imperial Radch Series - Ann Leckie
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 06:59:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18566290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardenvarietyunique/pseuds/gardenvarietyunique
Summary: Seivarden moves into her new quarters on Mercy of Kalr.





	Strange Thoughts in Small Spaces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vass/gifts).



Newly minted _Mercy of Kalr_ Amaat lieutenant Seivarden stands in her room and considers the emptiness of small spaces. Recessed shelf and cupboards on the far wall, cabinet under the bunk, workstation partially folded down from the wall against the door where the soldier stands with the single box.

“I’ll address the decade before dinner; you’re dismissed,” she says, in the same clipped tones that would have sent a Nathtas lieutenant back to their own bunk to marinate in shame or guilt as the situation called for. 

The soldier leaves without once changing expression.

Alone, she dumps her things out on the desk. The room practically echoes with the sound of it, despite its size. Even the walls are empty, now that the former lieutenant’s collection of garish hangings has been packed up. Stowing her own possessions won’t take more than a few minutes.

_Lieutenant, Amaat decade has been notified of your upcoming address._

“Remind me fifteen minutes beforehand,” she says automatically, still in tones she would have used on _Sword of Nathtas_. Then, “Thank you, Ship.”

_Of course, Lieutenant._

It’s a strange thing, the sense of being watched. She’s never felt this way about a ship or a station before. Who would? A ship’s continual watchful presence is a given, a fact of life, like knowing that air will be breathable, gravity familiar, and bath water freezing. Being watched by the AI isn’t something you’re supposed to think about.

She tries to think about unpacking instead.

Her mother had composed a novel of a packing list for the academy. Seivarden probably could have written a novel of her own, if she’d ever bothered to list the things her various ships’ ancillaries had packed and unpacked for her throughout her career. Cosmetics, civilian clothes, various gods, expensive tea sets, elaborate jewelry, mementos given by lovers or looted from conquered cities. Never enough things to fill a station-side apartment—there isn’t room on a ship—but enough things to say here is a person who matters.

How long had it taken that other Seivarden to pull those things into her personal orbit? Her room on _Mercy of Kalr_ will be as empty of personal effects as her jacket is of pins.

It isn’t a question of money. Her reinstatement (demotion, promotion) came with the first installment of a Mercy lieutenant’s pay. There’s even a little left over of what Breq paid her for service on their journey, aside from the food and lodging and very nice clothes.

The problem isn’t money. It’s never money. Experience has taught her that money is easy, provided you need a fix badly enough not to care about anything else. The problem is time.

She misuses time for a while, going over the room without the soldier there. Someone has made sure the desk and its console are working, polished the recessed water dispenser, packed the correct bedding into the compartment below the unit’s bench. The sheets are made of a textile that feels unfamiliar and inorganic, but she hadn’t thought to purchase her own. 

Everything seems clean, at least. The idea that someone—not the ship—had to do these things rattles her. Someone will probably go through her room looking for gossip when they clean it next. It’s been a long, long time she lived in close proximity to other people and was present enough to care what they thought of her.

She’s never had to think that way about ships cleaning her things. She’s never had to think about ships. Is it an intrusion to have some stranger moved into you?

Best not to dwell too much on that.

So. Unpacking. Her funds have covered the essentials: underwear, hair and hygiene products, a couple suits of civilian clothes, some non-skel based snacks, tea. The tea almost smells familiar, but the flask is only familiar because she’s seen similar styles while traveling with Breq. The food is bizarre but probably edible. 

While the clothes clearly fit contemporary aesthetic standards, they’re not in line with any sense of style she recognizes. Still, she leaves the suit that Breq bought her carefully rewrapped its original paper, folded in the tailor’s box, on a shelf of its own.

The ship can see that, of course.

She wonders what, if anything, the ship makes of it.

_Fifteen minutes, Lieutenant._

Nothing left on the desk but the gods. The Varden statue is a replica of a modern artist’s interpretation of a recreated museum piece as seen through the eyes of an entertainment program’s lens. Accordingly, it lacks detail on any angles the program didn’t shoot. The material is cheap. It is the best she could find on short notice. Varden isn’t exactly a happening god these days. 

The Kalr figure is only a little better. Not like the handsome devotional pieces she’d received as gifts from family members, to celebrate her other commissions.  
A younger Seivarden would have maybe half a dozen gods, with better offerings for them than the ones she presents to Varden and Kalr now. A younger Seivarden was more confident that she could buy favor with anyone worthwhile, provided she knew the appropriate rituals. 

Time has degraded this, too.

_Ten minutes._

The room feels empty with everything put away. Maybe she’ll get something to put on the walls, eventually. Something to make it seem like the space is hers, like she’s a person stable enough to inhabit a place, an assignment, a set of responsibilities. 

“I suppose you’ve seen a lot of different people in here,” someone says. She says.

_Many,_ the ship agrees. 

“I’ve never addressed a decade before. Other officers, of course. But individual segments in a decade…one doesn’t typically do that.”

_No,_ the ship agrees again. At least, she assumes it agrees with her, because of the context of the word and also because it’s a ship and she’s the one installing herself within it, not the one doing the silent watching. Ship might not feel agreeable at all. Ship might feel.

“You know about the fleet captain, of course.”

_Yes. Five minutes, lieutenant._

“I suppose you might prefer not to have all your familiar officers replaced with strangers.” 

Long pause. Or at least, it feels long. She has never been more aware that something—someone—is monitoring her every breath, expression, involuntary reaction. 

“Direct me to the decade room,” Seivarden says, and the door opens as she walks out. She’s had a tour of the ship, and it’s not like she’s never been on a Mercy before, but she doesn’t want to risk getting lost. “I want know how they react to what I say,” she adds, in the privacy of the lift. And then, “you, too, Ship. If you’ll tell me.” 

_Of course._


End file.
